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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987540">Sunrise to Sunset (A Choose Your Own Adventure)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeryl/pseuds/Zoeryl'>Zoeryl</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Abigail Hobbs Lives, Adopted Abigail Hobbs, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bed &amp; Breakfast, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bed &amp; Breakfast, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, CYOA, Cannibalism, Cannibalism Puns, Canon-Typical Violence, Caring Hannibal Lecter, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Comedy, Dark Abigail Hobbs, Dark Comedy, Dark Will Graham, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Manipulation, Established Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, F/F, F/M, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Happy Murder Family, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Interactive, Interactive Fiction, M/M, Manipulation, Multi, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, No Major Character Death, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Possible Character Death, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Reader Death, Reader May or May Not Die, Reader angst, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Has Nightmares, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham Loves Dogs, Will Graham is a Cannibal, angsty reader, reader - Freeform, reader smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:15:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,639</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeryl/pseuds/Zoeryl</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Reader Insert / Choose Your Own Adventure</i>
  </p>
</div>After a messy breakup, you wind up on the doorstep of a quaint New England bed &amp; breakfast run by the charming, well-spoken Hannibal Lecter, his sardonic but helpful husband Will Graham, and their enchanting daughter Abigail. This was supposed to be a simple vacation, but you soon realize this "perfect" family is far from normal. Curiosity barely kept at bay, you soak up the mystery unfolding around you. Furtive conversations overheard through thin walls. Hosts that sling dark humor like its a second language to them. Unruly guests that suddenly go missing. Its becoming hard to decide what emotions you feel most: fear, intrigue, lust...? Oh, hell, this is going to be a wild ride...<p><b><span class="u">An Interactive Story:</span></b> Choose which characters to befriend, which characters to pursue romantically, what suspicious noises to investigate in the dark of night. Or choose to mind your own damn business. But reader be warned, some choices may have <i>deadly</i> consequences...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Abigail Hobbs &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs &amp; Reader, Abigail Hobbs/Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs/Reader, Abigail Hobbs/You, Hannibal Lecter &amp; Reader, Hannibal Lecter/Reader, Hannibal Lecter/You, Will Graham &amp; Abigail Hobbs, Will Graham &amp; Abigail Hobbs &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham &amp; Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham &amp; Reader, Will Graham &amp; You, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/Reader, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>73</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Day 1 - Arrival</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
    <br/>
    
  </p>
  <p>
    <b>A Choose-Your-Own Adventure</b>
    <br/>
    <i>In which you may or may not survive the night.</i>
    <br/>
  </p>
</div><span class="u">How to Play:</span><br/>- Each chapter will have a choice.<br/>- Each choice will lead the story in a different direction, its all up to you.<br/>- Click the link for the choice you made.<br/>- Use the links only. Don't use the chapter index. Don't just scroll down through the whole fic. (Unless you really want to...)<br/>- Restart if you want to read the other story lines and make new choices.<br/>- To save your spot, bookmark the chapter you're on in your browser.<p><span class="u">Notes:</span><br/>- There will be three major story lines based on which character you decide to put the most effort into getting to know (Will, Hannibal, or Abigail)<br/>- There will be many potential outcomes. Some dark, some happy, some intimate.<br/>- The gender / sex of the reader can be left up to your imagination, in most passages it is not relevant or specifically defined.<br/>- Feel free to make suggestions! I'm always up for ideas :)</p><p><span class="u">About the AU:</span><br/>- The events of Season 2's finale Mizumono and Season 3 have not occurred.<br/>- Hannibal and Will do leave together, and take Abigail with them as their adopted daughter.<br/>- This fic takes place about 1- 3 years after they relocate together.<br/>- Since in this AU they've gotten together around Season 2, Hannibal and Will's relationship has developed differently and their interactions will reflect that. Hannibal is still Hannibal.<br/>- They aren't on the run from law enforcement. Yet, at least lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>This wasn’t what you had planned. Far from it. </p><p> </p><p>This trip was supposed to be about celebrating an anniversary, a romantic getaway that served as a culmination of the three years spent with your partner. Someone you had hoped to spend your life with. </p><p> </p><p>Alright, <em> perhaps </em> that was reaching. It was a rocky relationship, no lies there. But it's easy to fool yourself into believing there isn’t anything better out there. Not for you, anyways.  </p><p> </p><p>At the very least, however, you <em> had </em> hoped to not have been completely and utterly betrayed by them in a way that made you feel like a used rag left soaking on the bathroom floor. Like so much dirty laundry. </p><p> </p><p>On the morning before your departure, your partner had decided to come clean about a secret they’d been painstakingly keeping. You were in the middle of packing both of your suitcases when the rug was pulled out from beneath you. Perfect timing for revealing a year-long affair that had been going on right under your nose. With someone else you <em> had </em> considered a dear friend, no less. You’ve lost your partner, <em> and </em> your best friend. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. </p><p> </p><p>So much for romance, so much for friendship. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it was petty, but it seemed like such a colossal waste: all that time spent planning and packing for this trip. The hotel reservation was already paid for. As were the plane tickets. And none of it came cheaply. You’d been saving up for <em> months </em>. Taking extra shifts at work, doing odd jobs for the crotchety neighbors. Anything to make a little extra cash. </p><p> </p><p>The thought had struck you deep and lodged there. <em> What a waste. </em></p><p> </p><p>Fuck it, you damn well still needed a vacation. Given the state of things, you needed it now more than ever. </p><p> </p><p>Travelling solo might be refreshing anyways, right? This could be your chance to practice that notion of <em> self-care </em> everyone was always toting as being so important these days. </p><p> </p><p>A chance to clear your head. To empty your mind of nauseating memories, and fill them up with something new.</p><p> </p><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Now you are alone, sitting in the back of a taxi cab that smells of dried sweat and <em> well-circulated </em> dollar bills. You don’t blame the cabbie though, people could be particularly disgusting when they know they don’t have to clean up after themselves. </p><p> </p><p>The flight had been turbulent, the airports crowded, and the drive long. A day spent in transit. You can feel the ache of exhaustion clinging to your skin. It would be an understatement to say you look disheveled. Much more a mess than you had anticipated. </p><p> </p><p>But who cares, it’s not like you’ll meet anyone interesting here anyways, right? Just some bed &amp; breakfast tucked away in the New England woods. Near the Atlantic coast, but not quite on it. </p><p> </p><p>Probably full of rich elderly couples who did this sort of thing on a regular basis. Privileged. Snobbish. Boring. </p><p> </p><p>You can feel the cynicism creeping in. You know it's probably going to sour any experiences for you. Ill-humor tainting every interaction from here on out. But, <em> hell </em>, in light of the circumstances, you figure it's okay to indulge in a bit of pessimistic snark. </p><p> </p><p>The cab passes under covered bridges. Old, wooden, beautiful. Tree-lined roadways sporting the fiery hues of late Autumn. Up higher you can see the snow-tipped peaks of distant hills. </p><p> </p><p>The car stops abruptly at the edge of a driveway. You haul your suitcase from the trunk and pay the driver. His voice is solemn as you thank him curtly. He seems eager to leave. But he’s probably got places to be, other people to chauffeur. You catch him looking warily at you in his rearview mirror. That’s weird, dude. </p><p> </p><p>You’re suddenly very alone, standing in front of a large colonial house. Watching the taxi peel off down the dirt road leading back into the city. </p><p> </p><p>The Inn before you is just as you’d expect any self-respecting B&amp;B to appear.</p><p> </p><p>Quaint. Tidy. A bucolic paradise. Cottagecore type of charming. Whimsy with a hint of old-money opulence. </p><p> </p><p>The grounds are immaculately well kept. The yard is a green tree-lined meadow, surrounded by thick woods on all sides. </p><p> </p><p>Most of all, it felt completely devoid of mystery, as innocuous as possible. </p><p> </p><p>Normal. <em> Annoyingly </em> normal.</p><p> </p><p>Not even a single bad review, when you’d looked up the place online. You’d expect to find one or two hastily written rude remarks produced by disgruntled senior citizens or arrogant self-proclaimed hotel critics. But nothing tarnished the reputation of this place. </p><p> </p><p>Nearing the sweeping veranda, you place your bags on the wooden porch steps. There’s a small plaque tucked behind a set of white rocking chairs. In calligraphic text, its dainty letters spell out “We eat the rude.” </p><p> </p><p>You practically snort, chuckling to yourself. Well that explains the lack of bad reviews. <em> Thank God </em> these people at least have a sense of humor. That makes the overall pastoral feeling here a little more bearable. </p><p> </p><p>The advertisement had boasted a swimming pool, but you don’t see it yet. Must be around back. There are a pair of middle-aged women lounging at the other end of the porch. Other guests, you assume. They smile and wave a greeting. You nod back, so as not to appear unfriendly. </p><p> </p><p>You check your cell phone briefly to pull up the reservation information in your email. You prefer to be prepared before having to talk to any staff. But the signal is weak and nothing will load. </p><p> </p><p>Huh, really out in the boonies here, aren’t we? Bah, whatever. Might be nice to not have to worry about the outside world for a while. No more missed calls from your ex. Or your ex best friend. Or your mother, fussing over you like you’re some sort of bird with a broken wing. Her sympathy makes you feel too vulnerable. </p><p> </p><p>Eyes still glued to your phone, you page through the unanswered text messages from the past day. It becomes perfunctory. Check the box, select delete. Repeat the process. Delete. Delete. Delete.</p><p> </p><p>So you don’t notice when a streak of russet brown comes hurtling at you at nearly twice the speed of light. Fifty pounds of flesh and fur knock you off your feet and onto the hard wooden planks of the deck. <em> Shit. </em> That’s going to leave a bruise. </p><p> </p><p>But it’s forgivable. Good thing you enjoy the company of animals more than that of people. The brown dog assaults you with frothy licks and wiggly nuzzles, still standing atop your fallen form. </p><p> </p><p>“Harley!” There’s a man running up from a trail in the woods, calling the dog back. You can only see his figure in fractions. The massive brown dog is half-obscuring the rest.</p><p> </p><p>He’s wearing a plaid button-up, with hiking pants. Very utilitarian, nothing fancy. His dark curls rest delicately upon his forehead, bouncing lightly as he jogs towards the porch. His features are rather delicate. He’s not a very large guy. Not quite feminine, but he certainly couldn’t be described as robust, or brawny. The dim glow of youth still affixes itself to the stubbled skin of his face. He’s maybe in his late 30’s, perhaps his 40’s. But that might be a stretch. A pair of dark-rimmed glasses are tucked into his front shirt pocket. </p><p> </p><p>“Harley. <em> No. </em>” The dog looks back at him with a low, guilty wag. Still unmoving. The man’s tone shifts to fatherly. Almost stern. “Now. Come on.” The dog finally acknowledges.</p><p> </p><p>“Oof.” You can’t help but release the sound as the dog steps on your stomach to turn towards his master. </p><p> </p><p>“Really sorry about that.” He smiles and gives the dog a look that is both scolding and affectionate. “Probably not the reception you were expecting.” He outstretches his arm towards you, offering to help you up.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine.” You take his hand and allow him to pull you to your feet. He’s a lot stronger than he looks. “I actually really like dogs.” This comment seems to ingratiate you with your host.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, you’ve <em> already </em> met Harley.” He pats the dog’s rump before tossing a stick out into the yard for the dog to chase. </p><p> </p><p>The man turns back towards you and offers his hand again, this time as a proper greeting. “Will. I’m one of the owners.”</p><p> </p><p>You return the gesture and give him your name. Your hands linger together for a moment. His palms are rough and scarred but pleasantly warm. You break the contact, not wishing to allow the moment to lapse into awkwardness. </p><p> </p><p>You notice how his eyes don’t quite shine in the light of the afternoon, but they are alluring nonetheless. They’re a muddy hazel laced with shades of blue and teal. They’re like the forest floor in the springtime. Difficult to peg down to a single color.  </p><p> </p><p>You remember how unkempt you must look after all the rushing around in transit, and suddenly feel a twinge of embarrassment. You avert your eyes from his and instead focus on the scenery.</p><p> </p><p>There’s another dog, sitting at his heels. A floppy-eared brindle mutt with intelligent eyes and a protective stance. This one refuses to leave his master’s side. You eye the dog cautiously. And he eyes you back. Just as vigilantly. You get the impression that this dog would gladly die for his master. Will notices your tentative gaze.</p><p> </p><p>“And <em> this </em> is Winston. Don’t worry. He’s friendly.” He smiles graciously, which sets you at ease. This man, he seems sincere. Kind, even. He gives the dog a gentle pat on the head. The dog instantly calms beneath his touch, ears dropping low and mouth opening happily in a wide pant. Like a whole different animal. </p><p> </p><p>“Pleased to meet you, Winston.” You do a courteous little bow with your hand twirling out in front of you for dramatic effect. The way a foreign diplomat might bow before a mighty king. </p><p> </p><p>A low rumble comes from the dog’s throat. Not a growl, not a bark. Just acknowledgement. Like a handshake. </p><p> </p><p>The whole interaction elicits a warm laugh from Will. The cynicism lifts for a moment and you can’t help but to smile in return. Maybe these people aren’t so bad. Will, for his part, seems much less uppity than you’d expect the owner of this place to be.</p><p> </p><p>But having been so recently burned, you’re still slow to let your guard down. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a thin silver band on Will’s ring finger. You wonder why you didn’t notice it before.</p><p> </p><p>He offers to carry your bags in, promising that there won’t be any more assaults of the canine variety. It makes you grin. You let him help you, though you’re feeling a bit bashful about it. </p><p> </p><p>When you enter the home, you realize just how large and grand it really is. Darkly stained wood moulding, ornately carved furniture, tall ceilings, with exquisite paintings lining the walls. Elegance abounds, yet it somehow still manages to feel homey. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a small desk in the entryway, beside a sweeping staircase. It has a small brass sign that says “reception.” You imagine the guest rooms must be upstairs. On the main level is a grand dining room, the door to which is slightly propped open. There’s also a cozy library, serving as a sort of retreat for guests. It houses an assortment of lounge chairs, a grand fireplace, and a piano in the heart of the room. There’s a restroom to your right, and a glass door leading to the garden on your left.</p><p> </p><p>There could be a basement as well, but you can’t seem to find the stairwell to it. Perhaps it’s sealed away from the public. Personal storage, or utilities maybe. </p><p> </p><p>The owners do live here, after all. You suppose they are entitled to their own private areas. </p><p> </p><p>As the thought swirls around your mind, you do notice a door behind the reception desk that has a lock on it. No sign to define what the door leads to. Why does that make you all the more curious? </p><p> </p><p>Taking stock of the rooms around you, it becomes quite obvious that there is indeed a large portion of the house closed off to the guests. The building is much bigger on the outside, so there must be more rooms. Somewhere. Tucked away. Out of sight. Out of mind. </p><p> </p><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Will tells you about the best fishing spots on the property. He describes the labyrinth of trails in the surrounding woods, and a stream that meanders through the property. His voice changes pitch when he discusses fly fishing. It's almost child-like in wonder. Adorable, how excited he gets. You’re not particularly knowledgeable about the subject so you let him do most of the talking. You smile and nod at the appropriate times. </p><p> </p><p>You glance out the window and notice five other dogs, of varying sizes, playing in the yard. Carefree, enjoying the Fall weather. A sixth emerges from a pile of leaves by the edge of the property. You silently try to count up how many you’ve seen thus far. Eight, total? Maybe nine? </p><p> </p><p>That’s a lot of dogs. You like dogs as much as anyone. Probably more than most. But. Well. That’s a <em> lot </em> of dogs.</p><p> </p><p>“How many dogs do you have?” You blurt out the question. Honestly a bit surprised at yourself, but Will has been kind and receptive thus far. Hopefully he’ll find the question to be good-natured instead of rude. You certainly didn’t mean it to be rude. </p><p> </p><p>Will smiles sheepishly and opens his mouth to answer but is interrupted before he can begin. An older man steps out from behind the locked door, clearly having overheard the conversation.</p><p> </p><p>“Will is very fond of collecting strays.” The tone is… protective. Not harsh, but there is a small note of defensiveness at first. “A proclivity I’m happy to indulge.” His tone suddenly melds into gracious charm. </p><p> </p><p>His accent is one you’ve not heard before. He speaks with impeccable enunciation, in a way that makes language sound like poetry. You can’t help but think how pleasant it would be to just listen to him read. Read anything. Even something as boring as a grocery list.</p><p> </p><p>You’re not certain of his ethnicity. European, but that really doesn’t narrow it down. At all. You reflect on what you know of the smaller, Eastern European nations, putting together a mental map. Wishing you had more time to pursue studies in geography and world history in school.</p><p> </p><p>He puts a hand on Will’s shoulder, a chaste greeting. There’s a ring on his left hand that matches the one on Will’s. Same shape and style. </p><p> </p><p>Winston is still beside Will’s feet. Though he seems on higher alert around this other man. Not on edge. Just keenly observant. His ears more erect, eyes more bright. </p><p> </p><p>“Hannibal Lecter. A pleasure to meet you.” He meets your eyes with an unwavering gaze and takes your hand in his own. </p><p> </p><p><em> Hannibal. </em>Now there’s a name. Immediately conjures images of ancient Carthage, war torn empires and a notorious military leader that struck terror in the hearts of every Roman at the time. Outside of history books and latin phrases, it was a name rarely heard. Not here at least, not in modern times. </p><p> </p><p>You note how <em> this </em> Hannibal has a striking presence as well, though you can’t quite place your finger on why that is. He’s tall, with a lean frame. Confident and well-built. He clearly takes good care of his body. Dressed well, with special attention given to maintaining his tidy appearance. But that’s not it. It’s something about the way he moves, the way he speaks. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Like a wolf among the sheep.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Lord, did you<em> really </em> just think that? About a friendly stranger, no less? Gotta lay off those horror movies, kid. Your life is way too dull to be entertaining such fantasies. You try to banish the thought from your mind and return yourself to the situation at hand.</p><p> </p><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Formalities out of the way, the discussion turns to the banal but necessary. Checking in, handing off room keys. Explaining the daily schedule.</p><p> </p><p>“Impeccable timing. We’re just about to start dinner.” Hannibal chimes in, regarding your arrival. You can see the other guests shuffling into the large dining room. There’s not many others, though it is the off season. With winter nearly on the doorstep, you hadn't really expected the place to be full. But that suits you just fine.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> do </em> hope you’ve brought your appetite.” A small smile appears on Hannibal’s face. He purses his lips in a way that seems almost playful. </p><p> </p><p>Just the scent alone wafting through the halls makes your mouth water. The aroma is complex, layers of savory and sweet. You can’t tell what the main dish is from smell alone, but honestly you couldn’t care less at the moment. You’ve never been a picky eater. Hunger is beginning to rumble low in your abdomen. <em> Whatever </em> it is they’re having, you can tell it's bound to be the best thing you’ve had all day. </p><p> </p><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>The light on the horizon is fading, as sunset bathes the land in a soft vermillion glow. The light bounces off the turning leaves of the aspens and maples. A chorus of crickets and katydids hum outside. It’s almost magical. </p><p> </p><p>You stand beside the hallway window seat, taking in this moment. You think about what this place might be like to share with a lover. Like many of the couples here are already doing. </p><p> </p><p>Bitterness wells up inside you. Try to banish those thoughts. You’re better off not dwelling on the hurt. Just enjoy this moment. </p><p> </p><p>Sip the wine slowly, savor it. Listen to the sound of the piano trickle through the lofty rooms of the inn. Hannibal plays the instrument as if he was born to do it. Intricate melodies floating freely from his fingertips. </p><p> </p><p>Will is sitting on the porch with his daughter, Abigail. You’d been introduced during dinner. The pair are smiling as they talk, though you can’t hear the conversation. A pack of dogs lie at their feet, panting along happily into the evening air. Abigail looks so relaxed with Will. You observe the way they interact. There’s something so soft in it. He seems like a good father. </p><p> </p><p>Time passes slowly. But it <em> is </em> getting late. And nothing sounds better right now than a hot shower and a clean bed. The other guests are beginning to make their way upstairs as the day draws to a close. </p><p> </p><p>Will asks Abigail to show you to your room. </p><p> </p><p>She wears pure white linen with a high collar, a deep red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. It gives the appearance of fresh blood pouring out in ribbons onto a bank of pale snow. It's a stark, if not unsettling, contrast to her big doe eyes and her <em> girl-next-door </em> demeanor. She’s striking, especially those eyes. An intense cerulean blue that you feel you could get lost in, if given the chance. </p><p> </p><p>She’s young, but certainly not a child. Her mannerisms are a duality. They reflect sheltered adolescence, a sort of youthful innocence. But a shade of suffering behind her cheery smile says she might be older. Maybe 19? You’ve never been great with guessing ages. </p><p> </p><p>After escorting you to your destination, she descends back down the sprawling staircase. </p><p> </p><p>From your vantage point on the upper balcony, you could easily sneak a chance to watch this little family below you. People tend to peel back the layers when they think no one is looking.</p><p> </p><p>And you’re hoping for a chance to glimpse behind the veil. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>What will you do?</b>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0003">You should just go to bed. You’re tired and this is bordering on spying. Not a great way to make an impression on your hosts.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0002">A little healthy curiosity never hurt anyone… Stay and watch them for a moment.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0001">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0001">Restart the story from the beginning.</a></p>
  <p> </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day 1 - Arrival - Observations</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Controlling your curiosity has never been your strong point. And as long as no one catches you observing, what’s the harm? </p><p> </p><p>You can see Hannibal speaking to his daughter. They’re just out of earshot. Close enough to hear the tone and timbre of their voices but not enough to make out the words. </p><p> </p><p>You wish you could read lips. That would make this far more interesting.</p><p> </p><p>Abigail clears her throat and briefly fixes her shirt, tugging it down to unruffle the folds. She seems to care about maintaining a polished appearance in front of her elder father. When she’s with Will, she seems more lax, more at ease with being disheveled. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal tucks an unruly wisp of long brown hair behind her ear with delicate warmth. His eyes linger on hers. He leans down to press his lips upon her forehead. </p><p> </p><p>He pulls her into an embrace, his much larger body enclosing around hers.</p><p> </p><p>That embrace though… The placement of his hands, tight and firm around her waist. Was it protective, fatherly? <em> Possessive </em>? What was that glint in her eyes all about..? She melts into him like clay beneath a potter’s hands. </p><p> </p><p>Not every family is quite this affectionate. But every person has different definitions of acceptable affection. </p><p> </p><p>Right? </p><p> </p><p>Of course. It’s best not to judge. Didn’t your mother teach you that? </p><p> </p><p>You can tell that regardless of the nature of their relationship, there was something... <em> off-putting </em> about their closeness. A bond that existed only when survived by some sort of shared trauma, shared secrecy. Like an inside joke, the punchline of which could only ever be truly appreciated by the two of them. </p><p> </p><p>It makes you feel like a passerby peering into the windows of a closed shop. </p><p> </p><p>You shouldn’t be watching them so closely, it's impolite. </p><p> </p><p>The wine buzz is beginning to make you sleepy anyways. And that bed is so terribly inviting. </p><p> </p><p>You close the room to your door, flip the deadbolt.</p><p> </p><p>And collapse into the soft sheets.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0003">Try to get some sleep.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0001">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Night 1 - Sleepless</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Your dreams are bizarre. Even by your standards.</p><p> </p><p>Episodic nightmares frequented by a pair of questing creatures. </p><p> </p><p>A stag and a raven sitting in the woods, in front of a bonfire. Making insipid little remarks at each other. </p><p> </p><p>Until something in the darkness reaches out and stitches them together. </p><p> </p><p>Like bad taxidermy. </p><p> </p><p>After that, you find it hard to go back to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>The alarm clock on the bedside table says 1:38 am. </p><p> </p><p>The room is chilly. You can feel the air conditioning blowing through the cracks in the cast-iron register on the floor. It’s rather late in the year for the ac to be on. What are they trying to do, <em> preserve </em> their guests? Ha. </p><p> </p><p>You laugh to yourself. And think of an episode of Bates Motel. </p><p> </p><p>Suddenly, the thought isn’t so funny anymore.</p><p> </p><p>There’s an itch, just beneath the skin, that makes you want to get out of bed. Maybe it’s the bad dreams, but you can’t stand being in this room any longer. You need to stretch your legs, give your mind the space to wander. </p><p> </p><p>It’s well past the time of night that you’d expect anyone to still be up. Guests, or owners. You haven’t had a chance to explore the whole place yet, and the thought of getting to do so uninterrupted, alone, is much more appealing than waiting until tomorrow morning. </p><p> </p><p>There’s the library. With the tall, bewitching fireplace. A plethora of books to look through. A record collection. An intriguing array of paintings and illustrations. It would be a good place to cure insomnia. Pass the time, maybe spend an hour or so until the drowsiness takes hold again. You wonder if the fireplace still holds any dying embers from this evening. Plus, you thought you saw a collection of sketchbooks sitting on one of the end tables. You’re pretty sure they’re Hannibal’s. A chance to look through them is an enticing thought. </p><p> </p><p>But there’s also the garden, behind the house. You saw a glimpse of it through the french doors by the dining room. You imagine how beautiful it might be in the moonlight: a gallery of moss covered statues, a maze of tall lavender hedges, weeping cherry trees swaying in the night breeze. It might not put you to sleep like books would, but some fresh air and the pleasantries of nature could lead to better dreams. Oh, and that decaying relic of a garden shed on the edge of the property looked like it might hold some interesting history. </p><p> </p><p>You begin getting dressed, pulling on your shoes, as you try to decide where to spend your nighttime escapade.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0005">Head downstairs. The library sounds more your style.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0009">Head outside. You're dying to see the garden. </a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0004">Actually, on second thought, this place is probably creepy as hell at night. Just stay in bed.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0001">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Priorities? Survival.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Come on! Where’s your sense of adventure?! </p><p>The thrill of new places! New faces! New-</p><p>Okay. </p><p>Fine. </p><p>You win.</p><p>Have it your way. </p><p>Enjoy your pleasant, but uneventful, vacation. </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Finally. Thank you very much. I prefer to <em>survive</em> my boring life. [END]</p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0003">Wait, wait… Ugh. I’ve changed my mind. Let’s rethink the last decision.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Fireplace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>You descend the stairs quietly. </p><p> </p><p>A childhood spent growing up in a strict, authoritarian household has taught you the finer points of being stealthy. You use your adolescent baggage to your advantage, and keep your presence from being made known. In case someone else is still up.</p><p> </p><p>There’s nothing inherently wrong with wandering about at night, it is public space after all. If this were one of those big hotel chains, you’d have no qualms at all. But being in a place that also serves as a home makes the act feel slightly invasive. </p><p> </p><p>Plus, there’s a stillness to the air that makes it seem like a violation to create noise.</p><p> </p><p>The sliding door to the library is still open, but not all the way. It’s pulled just past the halfway point, so that you can’t fully see in from your position on the stairs. It wasn’t like this earlier in the evening. </p><p> </p><p>You can see the glow of the firelight dancing about the doorway. Still gleaming brightly as if it’s been stoked within the hour. Someone must have been here recently. You wonder if they’re still here.</p><p> </p><p>The hallway is dark as night, so you tread carefully towards the light of the library. </p><p> </p><p>As you near, you pick up on the soft chorus of music and chatter.</p><p> </p><p>You peer in from afar. They’re sitting together by the fireplace, the two owners. The orange glow dances on their faces, the rest of their bodies partially obscured by shadows. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s legs are crossed. His forelimbs are draped delicately over the arms of the chair.  A glass of wine in one hand, the stem of which is balanced between two fingers. He looks like a regal statue. Serpentine, and made of marble. </p><p> </p><p>Will’s posture is much more casual. Legs splayed wide, slumping down a bit in his chair. He has a wine glass as well, but he grips it with his full hand wrapped around the spherical basin, the way you might hold a softball as you prepare to throw it.</p><p> </p><p>The contrast between the two is reflected in the house itself, equal parts urban and sylvan. Dignified but rural. Stately, yet simple. </p><p> </p><p>There’s a record player in the corner of the room. An old victrola. It’s spinning in a steady rhythm. Out from its horn falls a symphony of violins. An orchestral piece that could soothe any listener. The record crackles and pops a bit. But it only adds to the atmosphere.</p><p> </p><p>Their voices are low. Quiet. Muffled by the distance between you. Damn this house for having such poor acoustics. Or good insulation. One of the two. </p><p> </p><p>You weren’t expecting to run into anyone tonight. They must be insomniacs as well. Or perhaps just one of them. Will has dark circles under his eyes that speak to years of restless nights. Maybe Hannibal is just keeping him company.</p><p> </p><p>This has thrown a wrench in your plans. You pause to consider the next course of action.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0009">Go to the garden instead. You still can’t sleep, and this room is clearly occupied.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0006"> Get Closer. People watching is incredibly gratifying. Especially with these two.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0008">Go back to bed. What the hell do you think you’re going to achieve with this?</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0003">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Fireplace - Slow Waltz</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>You inch closer, being sure to step only on the rugs. The fabric softens your footsteps to an inaudible level. </p><p> </p><p>You’re just outside the door now. With the difference of light between the library and the hall, it should be difficult for them to see you. The way it's hard to see out your windows at night if all the lights are on inside. But you’ve given yourself an out should they near the entry. There’s a linen closet just off to the left, the door to which you could step behind quickly should the need arise. Or you could attempt to explain away your presence, looking for...an extra blanket? Sure, sounds… weak but reasonable.</p><p> </p><p>They were discussing something that made Will cringe, as if recalling an unsettling memory. </p><p> </p><p>He stands and leans against the mantle of the fireplace. Arm across his forehead, watching the embers glow white and crumble into ash. His hands are shaky. A bead of sweat runs the length of his temple and slides down his chin. </p><p> </p><p>He suddenly looks so feeble. Exposed and fragile. A different man from the one you met earlier.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal rises to his feet. </p><p> </p><p>Will doesn’t seem to notice as his partner brushes past him. Lost in his own mind. Or pointedly ignoring Hannibal, you honestly can’t tell which. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal reaches the marble countertop where the record player sits. He delicately lifts the needle on the victrola. Puts away the record in its dust jacket, then into its case on the shelf. He replaces it with another. One of the larger 78’s. </p><p> </p><p>The record crackles to life and a <em> concerti </em> from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons begins to play. It’s the final part of the series, Winter. </p><p> </p><p>A lively orchestra of string instruments fills the room. Violins. Double bass. Harpsichord. </p><p> </p><p>It looks as if he’s trying to draw his partner out from under the gloom. Trying to… lift his spirits, perhaps? In an off-hand sort of way.</p><p> </p><p>It does get Will’s attention, whatever the motive. He cocks his head to the side, though doesn’t bother turning to look. At least, not until Hannibal is right beside his partner. </p><p> </p><p>“Dance with me.”</p><p> </p><p>Will eyes his husband with vexation. “I’m not in the mood.” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal doesn’t look surprised at the answer. He expected it. “Then I shall have to dance with myself.”</p><p> </p><p>He twirls towards the fireplace, performing a perfect slow waltz with an invisible partner. The drawn-out rise and fall highlights the finesse with which he controls his limbs. </p><p> </p><p>He’s putting on a show.</p><p> </p><p>Will watches, silent at first. Firelight dancing in the black orbs of his eyes. </p><p> </p><p>He raises an eyebrow as the dance becomes even more grandiose and absurd. </p><p> </p><p>It only takes a moment more before he’s laughing gently. “Stop. <em> Stop. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>There’s a flush in his cheeks that wasn’t there before.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal does a little bow and returns to Will’s side.</p><p> </p><p>And there it is, like a spark in the air. A sort of magnetism between them. Pulled together like opposite poles. Will comes back to life, out of whatever dark place he was in before.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal leans in, hand cupped softly around Will’s jaw. The instant the contact is made, Will’s eyelids lower slightly and he leans into the touch. Melts into it. The way a dog does when you pet it in just the right spot.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal inhales deeply, savoring the scent of his partner. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m so pleased that atrocious cologne is finally wearing off of you. I revel in the day you decided to stop wearing it.” </p><p> </p><p>“Did I really have a choice?”</p><p> </p><p>“You always have a choice, <em> mon coeur </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Will laughs. “You threw out the bottle.” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal smiles, resting his forehead against Will’s. His wine glass lies forgotten on the mantle. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> And </em> replaced it.” Hannibal adds, to refute. “With something that suits you.” </p><p> </p><p>“Yes.” Will places his hands around Hannibal’s waist and begins to sway back and forth in time with the music. </p><p> </p><p>“You did. And now-” Will pauses, lifting their arms into the air and leading his partner in a sort of improvised waltz. </p><p> </p><p>“And now?” Hannibal inquires, adjusting their arms. He places a hand on the small of Will’s back, shifting himself to the leading partner and quickens the pace of their dance. The waltz suits Hannibal. Lithe and limber.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> And now </em>, I smell like my grandfather.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s laughter in the air. The broad smile that spreads across Hannibal’s face is so honest, so real. It seems reserved for Will alone. </p><p> </p><p>“Like pine trees-” Will spins beneath Hannibal’s arms. There’s humor in his tone. “And old musk.” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal laughs and shakes his head. “Darling, there’s much more to it than that.” He takes the opportunity to transition their movements into a form of swing dancing. </p><p> </p><p>Faster footfalls, the ebb and flow of their bodies like a pair of courting passerines. The waltz may be refined, artistic… But East Coast swing? Dazzling. Sensual. Playful. Passionate.</p><p> </p><p>“Bergamot.” Hannibal’s movements are graceful as he speaks. “Clove.” Lean legs outstretched with each step, pulling the pair together and apart again. “Balsam fir.” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s voice is breathier now. They turn about the room with a fevered pace. “Among others.”</p><p> </p><p>Will keeps up with ease, and holds Hannibal’s gaze with spell-binding focus. He’s adaptable as well, it appears. A capable partner. </p><p> </p><p>Clearly they’ve danced together before. </p><p> </p><p>“So sorry that my boorish nose can’t pick up on all the nuances.” Will counters, with a crooked smile. He takes the lead once again, and pushes the pair towards the fireplace so that Hannibal’s back is alight with the heat. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal pulls him in close, their hips pressed against each other. “Quite alright.” He runs his nose along the skin of Will’s neck. “We can share my senses.”</p><p> </p><p>Their dance pauses. You can practically hear the weight of their breaths. In time with the beat of the music. </p><p> </p><p>“Egotistical bastard.” Will taunts. </p><p> </p><p>“Light of my life.” Hannibal replies, resuming their dance. Slowly this time.</p><p> </p><p>Baring his teeth just a hint, an impish grin forms on Hannibal’s face. He surprises Will by swiftly pulling him into a dip that drops Will’s head low enough that his dark curls drag across the floor. </p><p> </p><p>Instinctively, Will wraps a leg around his partner for support. He looks slightly miffed, the air taken out of his lungs. Knuckles turning white as he grips his partner’s shirt.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal bends over him, the curves of their spines mirroring each other. “Couldn’t resist.” He admits, with a wink, cocking his head to the side between breaths.</p><p> </p><p>Heavy huffs, hot air mingling in the small space between their lips. </p><p> </p><p>“Pity you don’t have more self control.” Will lets his body go limp, trust returning. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal takes the opportunity to wrap his arms tightly around Will’s back and lifts the both of them back up to a standing position.</p><p> </p><p>“Not when it comes to you, <em> mylimasis </em>.”</p><p> </p><p>Their serenade has been marvelous to watch. Like a ballroom performance. It makes you want to interrupt, just to give applause. </p><p> </p><p>But, this feels like a private moment. You know the static in the air would shift the second it was made known that they had an audience. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it’s time to leave them be. There’s a longing in their eyes that speaks to something of a more carnal nature. If you stay any longer, you may intrude on something even more… well...<em> personal.  </em></p><p> </p><p>The sour mood your nightmares brought has certainly been lifted now, anyways. You could creep back up the staircase, get some rest. God knows you need it.</p><p> </p><p>Although… On the other hand. Watching these two is addictive. Leaves you craving more. You’ve already seen this much. A little more… couldn’t hurt, right? </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0008"> It’s time for bed. Be a courteous guest and let them have their private moment.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0007">Screw it. You’re staying right where you are. Where’s the popcorn?</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0005">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Fireplace - Slow Waltz - Voyeurism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>You’re not sure why you’re still watching. This is honestly making you feel a little creepy. But you’d be lying if you said you’re not enjoying it. </p><p> </p><p>For the past several minutes their kisses have been far from chaste. </p><p> </p><p>Somehow, you expected something a little different from these two. Their dance was so graceful. So charming and elegant. Full of gallantry.</p><p> </p><p>This, however, is not.</p><p> </p><p>It’s full of frenzied energy. Unbridled yearning. Unfettered desire. A need to consume, an avarice for flesh. </p><p> </p><p>The lack of restraint is startling.</p><p> </p><p>Taking turns pinning each other up against the walls. Lips pressing together, hard and fast. Rotating and forcing the other to hit the stone columns of the fireplace with a jarring thud. </p><p> </p><p>Falling back onto furniture and making it scuff noisily against the floor. Chasing each other about in a predatory manner. </p><p> </p><p>Clumsily knocking items off tables. Oh, there goes the bottle of wine. Shame, it looked expensive. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe it’s not always like this. Maybe sometimes it’s tender, soft, full of warmth and sentimentality. Like gentle sins in the dark. But tonight? Tonight it’s like traversing through the wilderness.</p><p> </p><p>Between breathless kisses, their conversation turns to morbid imagery. In dulcet tones they speak of savage acts. Feral whispers about the taste of blood. </p><p> </p><p>It sets your nerves on edge. Allegories of decay and decadence.  An eagerness to hunt together, two wolves sharing the same well-worn paths under the crescent moon.</p><p> </p><p>That’s some weird pillow talk. You’ve never been averse to kinks, but something about their fevered voices makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal lifts Will up with ease and sets him on the edge of the desk, plucks the buttons open on the plaid shirt he wears. One by one. Lips begin to worship the skin above Will’s navel. </p><p> </p><p>“Hann-” The first interruption is feeble at best. The second is only slightly more insistent. “Hannibal-”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?” He seems lost in the haze. Intoxicated. But not from the wine.</p><p> </p><p>“We still have guests. It’s-” Will moans into his husband’s neck, feeling the hot breath trail along his waist. “It’s not winter yet.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal purrs into his ears. “They should be so lucky.” He pulls away and admires Will’s figure. Shirt fully unbuttoned. Body glowing in the fire light. “To see you like this.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wait-” Will weakly fights off the hands that are beginning to slip beneath his belt. His attempt at ushering in respite is a half-hearted measure and Hannibal is well aware of that fact. </p><p> </p><p>Teeth drag along the sharp protrusions of his hip bones. </p><p> </p><p>Will musters together a semblance of composure. “<em> Wait. </em> I’m serious, Hannibal.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s demeanor immediately shifts. He pulls himself back, only a hint of reluctance. He watches Will’s eyes closely for a moment, as if trying to read them. Puts himself back together, straightening his jacket. Fixing the collar of his shirt. Running a hand through his hair. He leans down and presses his lips to Will’s forehead, giving it a very conservative kiss. “Of course.”</p><p> </p><p>To the careless observer, he might appear purely respectful. But you can tell there’s a bit of passive aggression to his mannerisms. A sort of dignified pout. Or, perhaps you’re just reading too much into it.</p><p> </p><p>Will grumbles for a moment, tilting his head back in exasperation. He’s clearly caught on to his partner’s sulking. Will falls back onto the desk, eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. “Look-” He begins. “Just. Just check the cameras first at least.”</p><p> </p><p>He reaches into a hidden drawer on the side of the desk and retrieves a tablet. He hands it to his partner. “Here. I don’t have my glasses.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal takes the computer in one hand. He sits on the edge of the desk, crosses one leg over the other and sets the tablet across his knee. His free hand is gently toying with the mess of curls on Will’s head. </p><p> </p><p>Will closes his eyes and reaches a hand up to rest loosely on Hannibal’s wrist. He speaks casually. “For someone so typically cautious, you have an unhealthy penchant for taking risks.”</p><p> </p><p>“Calculated risks.” He corrects. Then pauses thoughtfully, and gives Will’s hair a playful tug. “Though my affection for you is also my undoing.”</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal unlocks the tablet with a passcode and begins scrolling through. You can’t see what is on the screen, but you can see the blue glow illuminating his face. His eyes dart back and forth.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever network they’re on, it seems to be the only thing that gets service out here. Is that by chance, or by design?</p><p> </p><p>Hold on a second. What did they say before? You’ve been so engrossed in the scene that you missed your cue to leave.</p><p> </p><p>They said cameras, didn’t they? </p><p> </p><p>Cameras…? Shit. Shit. <em> Shit. </em></p><p> </p><p>There’s a sudden look of recognition in Hannibal’s eyes.</p><p> </p><p>“It appears we already have an audience.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?” Will sits up immediately. His face blanches, ghostly white. He’s clearly not into voyeurism. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal notices his reaction, how averse Will is to this intrusion. Before this, Hannibal seemed relatively unbothered by the situation. Insouciant, even. Able to tackle anything with poise. Doesn’t seem to possess a sense of shame. </p><p> </p><p>But watching the discomfort leach into his partner’s eyes has changed the aura about him. Darkness creeps into his expression. He seems to have made a decision about something. </p><p> </p><p>Will leans over the tablet to see what Hannibal is talking about. “There.” Hannibal points to a specific spot on the screen.</p><p> </p><p>They look away from the tablet. And peer into the darkness of the hallway.</p><p> </p><p>In terrifying unison, two pairs of eyes meet yours.</p><p> </p><p>Oh. Fuck. </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal raises his voice enough to make it clear that it is directed at you. “What terrible manners you have. And I simply cannot abide discourteous behavior.” </p><p> </p><p>Hannibal strides towards you, taking care to step over the bottle of wine that is still lying broken on the floor. His movements are precise but relaxed. </p><p> </p><p>Caught like a deer in the headlights, you don’t even try to run. Your body tenses, refusing to push past the shock and fear. </p><p> </p><p>Before you can realize it, he’s backed you into a corner. </p><p> </p><p>Will stares, unflinching. He retrieves his glass of wine and presses it to his lips. The ripples of fire reflect in the glass so much so that his eyes are completely invisible behind the red flames. He takes a sip before setting the glass back on the mantle. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “So much for a quiet night in.”</p><p> </p><p>“Will, my darling, how many reservations do we have for the harvest banquet?”</p><p> </p><p>“As of this morning? Twenty-three. And counting.” </p><p> </p><p>“That’s quite a crowd.” They speak casually, discussing as if you’re not even present. But Hannibal’s eyes remain locked on you. Taking in your every movement. </p><p> </p><p>He leans in towards you and lowers his voice. “A lot of mouths to feed.” He whispers it playfully. There’s clearly some sort of inside joke that you’ve intruded upon.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal directs his attention back to Will. “And, the freezer, <em> carissimo </em>? Do we have enough to finish out the season?”</p><p> </p><p>Will appears almost bored with this. The tedium. “You know, I believe we’re a little low.” He shrugs in a sort of non-commital way. “Wouldn’t hurt to restock.” </p><p> </p><p>Before you have time to interpret the gravity of Will’s words, Hannibal pounces. </p><p> </p><p>One hand cradling the back of your head gently, the other around your neck. </p><p> </p><p>He smells of vetiver and pomegranate. Breath hot on your cheek.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry my dear, this will be painless.” Hunger in his eyes. He sizes you up. “You’re going to make a <em> boudin noir </em>that’s simply transcendent.” </p><p> </p><p>You feel the sharp pressure of his tightening grip.</p><p> </p><p>A swift twist. </p><p> </p><p>A loud crack.</p><p> </p><p>And the world goes entirely black.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>[Reader Death]</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> This is where the story ends for you, dear guest. Was it the ending you expected? Or perhaps the one you dreaded. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Was it a happy ending? That will be up to you. Happiness is relative after all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was it deserved? Or did you draw the shortest straw this time around?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Should time reverse, and the teacup pull itself together again, fate might possibly be kinder. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Want to try again?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0006">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0001">Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Accept your fate. [END]</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Fireplace - Slow Waltz - Back to Bed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You decide to take this as your cue to leave.</p><p> </p><p>Everyone deserves their privacy. Besides, what if they caught you? How could you even begin to explain yourself?</p><p> </p><p>They’ve been lovely hosts so far, and to intrude like this would be wrong.</p><p> </p><p>You do want to get to know these two better. Something about them draws you in. </p><p> </p><p>But you feel that spying on them isn’t the best way to do that. </p><p> </p><p>As you descend the stairs, you hear a muffled crash. Like something shattered. Fell off a table perhaps. There’s breathy laughter that comes afterwards.</p><p> </p><p>Then there’s a noise so unambiguously amorous that just hearing it from a distance is enough to make you blush. You suppress an embarrassed smile and hurry up the stairs with a little more urgency.</p><p> </p><p>Good thing you left when you did. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do? <br/></strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Settle in for the night and get some rest. [DAY 2 - will be posted soon!]</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0005">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Garden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>The garden is vast by normal comparisons, like something you’d see behind a Victorian-era estate. Some of the foliage is too tall to see over, giving the space a maze-like feel. It’s otherworldly in the moonlight. The stone facades of weeping angels greet you as you let your fingertips drag through the flowerbeds.</p><p> </p><p>You wander through the towering hedges until you come to the heart of the garden. Stone benches covered in creeping ivy. A fountain that’s yet to be drained for the winter. </p><p> </p><p>Emerging from the undergrowth, the rolling meadow is now clearly visible again, and so is the dilapidated shed on the edge of the yard. </p><p> </p><p>A flicker of movement near the shed grabs your attention. Fear grips you like a cold hand on your throat. Who knows what creatures those woods could be sanctum to. Bears, wolves? Or all the dark things no one wants to talk about. You think of your dreams from earlier and shudder.</p><p> </p><p>But that panic is quelled as you realize what small figure is coming into view. It’s Abigail. She shuts the door to the shack with stealth, and begins making her way towards the garden. You retrace your steps a few feet so that you aren’t in plain view.</p><p> </p><p>She’s shed that dapper regalia she wore earlier this evening. She looks so pedestrian now. A loose gray hoodie with camouflage accents. Black leggings, the everyday kind that cling like tights. You wonder if she dresses up just to satiate her fathers. </p><p> </p><p>She still covers her neck, though. A black thermal undershirt with a high neck peeks out above the opening of her hoodie. Like she’s hiding something. But from who? The flowers? The garden statues? It’s nearly 2am. The night is empty and dark save for a few rabbits running through the meadow.</p><p> </p><p><em> Hiding from herself. </em> The thought crosses your mind but you reject it. Too saccharine. She’s probably just cold. </p><p> </p><p>She plants herself on one of the stone benches beneath the branches of a weeping cherry tree. Retrieves a ziploc bag from her pocket and pulls out a carton of cigarettes and a cheap plastic lighter. She’s struggling with getting the spark to catch. Muttering a few expletives as she tries again. </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0013">Leave her be. It’s none of your business.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0012"> Snitch on her. Tell her dads she’s up to no good. </a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0010">Go talk to her. Maybe she could use some company.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0003">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Night 1  - Sleepless - The Garden - Company</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>You try your best not to startle Abigail as you approach, but that fails pretty miserably.</p><p> </p><p>She bites her lip and inhales sharply, surprised that anyone has materialized out here in the abyss. Her arm quivers for a second, as if she was contemplating hiding the cigarettes behind her back. Instead, she just freezes. And watches you with those big blue eyes. So very doe like.</p><p> </p><p>She looks like she’s trying to get a read on you, assess your intentions.  </p><p> </p><p>How to bridge the silence…? Ah. Got it. Good thing you’re wearing your jeans from earlier. Pockets still full of your belongings. Wallet, lighter, spare change. Crumbs.</p><p> </p><p>You dig around and hand her your lighter. A gesture of solidarity. Looks like you’ve established some trust. </p><p> </p><p>“Thanks.” After accepting the offer, her stiff posture relaxes slightly. </p><p> </p><p>You decide to keep a little distance between you, sitting on a bench across the stone path. </p><p> </p><p>“Well. Obviously I don’t know you from Adam, but can I ask a favor?” </p><p> </p><p>You nod tentatively in response to her request.</p><p> </p><p>“Keep this between us?” She tosses you back your lighter. “I’m not too young or anything. Nothing like that. But I still don’t want my dads finding out. It’s just easier that way.”</p><p> </p><p>You get the impression that they still treat her as a young child. Perhaps it’s with good reason. Maybe she needs to be looked after. Or perhaps they’re just overprotective. Like the type of parents that are nearly suffocating in their concern. You could see it going either way, honestly.</p><p> </p><p>You agree to keep her secret, and tell her you can relate. How everyone has had to sneak around at some point in their lives. </p><p> </p><p>“<em> No. </em> It’s-” She laughs sweetly. Her honeyed voice hits you in the gut like a jar of moths let loose. Makes you feel equal parts parental and infatuated.</p><p> </p><p>She stifles her laughter and continues. “My dad isn’t like everyone else's.” Her eyes grow wide in amusement.</p><p> </p><p>“Which one-” You begin but she clarifies quickly. Hannibal. Ah.</p><p> </p><p>You tell her your parents weren’t conventional either. Weird, one might say.</p><p> </p><p>“<em> Weird </em>. Weird doesn’t come close to describing him. That’s putting it lightly.” She smiles again. There’s a gentle look in her eyes. Not quite humor, it’s almost like fond nostalgia. She cares for her guardians, that’s clear. Even if they aren’t normal.</p><p> </p><p>She leans in towards you to explain. “He knows us by scent alone. He can basically smell if you’re lying.” </p><p> </p><p>“Like a bloodhound?” You try to keep the tone light-hearted. You imagine she’s probably exaggerating a little. </p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Exactly.” She grins, pleased to see that you’re playing along. </p><p> </p><p>“Can he smell fear?” You ask, as a joke. </p><p> </p><p>She licks her lips. There’s a mischievous edge to her smile now. “Wouldn’t doubt it.”</p><p> </p><p>She takes another drag of the cigarette before continuing. </p><p> </p><p>“The major downside is that he always knows where I’ve been. What I’ve been doing.” She makes a gesture to draw attention to the burning stub between her fingers, and knocks off some ash onto the ground. “It’s a pain, to be honest.”</p><p> </p><p>You’re still incredulous, but she seems sincere about her claims. </p><p> </p><p>She explains how she has to strip down completely before going back inside. How she leaves a clean change of clothes wrapped up in plastic bags tucked away in the shed. And places the dirty ones in a separate bag. Takes the garden hose and rinses the scent from her hair before wrapping it up in a hair tie. A routine she has to keep up with anytime she wants to indulge. </p><p> </p><p>“He probably knows anyway. But-” She shrugs and inhales deeply. There’s no need for her to finish the thought. You get it, it’s more for her own sanity.</p><p> </p><p>“My real dad-” She searches for the right words. “Um. Biological father. He taught me different ways to cover my scent. When we were hunting. Deer have a really good sense of smell too. Most animals do. If you want to kill the stag, you can’t smell like a hunter. You have to smell like the things they’re comfortable with. Like the forest, like the prey. They have to see you as the same as themselves.” Her eyes go glassy for a second. She scratches at the black turtleneck, tugs at it like it's suddenly too tight. </p><p> </p><p>You admit to her that you’ve never really gone hunting. Having had neither the opportunity nor a mentor to show you the ropes. </p><p> </p><p>“We get a lot of hunters through here in the Fall. How long are you staying?”</p><p> </p><p>You tell her the original plan you had with your partner. Ten days. </p><p> </p><p>“That’s plenty of time. I can <em> show you the ropes </em>.” She takes the words you used earlier and spins them back at you with a smile. “Take you to see some of the blinds around the property.” She gestures to the depths of darkness beneath the trees on the edge of the meadow. “We back up to miles of state land on three sides. So you can get pretty far away from all of this. You can really get lost out there.” Ominous. But intriguing. </p><p> </p><p>“I might take you up on that offer.” You answer her, trying to sound genuine. But internally, you’re on the fence about it. Not about spending more time with Abigail. But hunting? It's a sport that draws its fair share of critique. The ethics of which are debatable, depending on who you ask. Could be utterly thrilling, feeling like the apex predator for once. Could be a cheerless ordeal, obligatory like going to the grocery store. Or, could be something you find you don’t have the stomach for.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>The two of you make small talk for a little while. </p><p> </p><p>She’s trying very hard to give the appearance of speaking freely. But you can tell she’s guarded about some of the details, when she talks about herself, her life, her family. It’s not entirely unexpected though. You are practically a stranger, after all. </p><p> </p><p>After a while, she thanks you for the company and announces her need to head back inside. You look at your phone. It’s 3:45am. Damn. You better get to bed too. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ve gotta go change.” She rolls her eyes and laughs at the absurdity of her life. “Goodnight.”</p><p> </p><p>She heads towards the shed, her figure becoming more and more obscured by the darkness as she disappears from view.</p><p> </p><p>You stifle a yawn and rise from the stone bench, stretching your sore limbs. </p><p> </p><p>You can’t help but being glad to have spent a little time with Abigail. She’s whip smart and good-natured. You feel like you’ve made a friend. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe you will take her up on that offer to go hunting sometime this week.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Call it a night and head back to bed. Tomorrow's a new day and it's been a pleasant evening. [DAY 2 - will be posted soon!]</p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0011">Follow her to the shed. Abandon your morals and watch her.</a> <em>[Trigger Warning: Non-Con elements. Non-graphic.]</em></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0009">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Night 1  - Sleepless - The Garden - Company - Intrusion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>[Trigger Warning: Non-Con elements. Non-graphic.]</em>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>You’ve followed the path she took. Traced her steps. She’s inside the shed and unaware of your presence, as you linger along the outside, peering in through a cracked window pane. </p><p> </p><p>She’s using her phone for light. Unpacking fresh clothes from a hidden bag. </p><p> </p><p>What the fuck are you doing. Every fiber of your being knows this is wrong. At least by societal standards. </p><p> </p><p>You can hear the sound of the blood flushing through your skull, singing in time with the crickets and the rhythms of the night air.</p><p> </p><p>A cocktail of adrenaline bubbling just beneath the surface. </p><p> </p><p>You just want to see her. See her body with your own eyes. You tell yourself that this is okay. </p><p> </p><p>Your breath is fogging up the glass window. You take your sleeve and wipe away the condensation so you can get a better glimpse inside. </p><p> </p><p>If anyone found you in this situation, pressed up against the window, it would be nothing short of compromising. Pretty obvious as to what your intentions are.</p><p> </p><p>And then.</p><p> </p><p>There it is.</p><p> </p><p>A sound that makes your heart skip a beat.</p><p> </p><p>There’s the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. </p><p> </p><p>You turn around slowly, delicately, to see the muzzle of a rifle directed at your head. Will Graham is gripping it tightly. His eyes are black in the moonlight.</p><p> </p><p><em> Fuck. </em> </p><p> </p><p>The plausible theories run through your head. He must have come looking for her, noticing her absence in the house. And surely to his surprise, discovered you spying on her instead.</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal is in the distance, throwing on his jacket as he comes running to the scene. Will must have been faster to react to this intrusion.</p><p> </p><p>The commotion has alerted Abigail as well. She’s joined the scene outside. Shocked at first. But now she looks disgusted with the discovery. Rightfully so.</p><p> </p><p>Will keeps his eyes locked on you like a missile on a target. But he directs his voice towards his daughter. He speaks slowly, his voice low, almost guttural in tone. </p><p> </p><p>“Abigail. Are you alright?”</p><p> </p><p>“Fine- I’m fine.” </p><p> </p><p>He tilts his head towards Hannibal, who has just reached them. Abigail picks up on the gesture. She walks around you and Will to join Hannibal. </p><p> </p><p>“Shall we involve the law enforcement, Will? Or shall we handle this matter ourselves?” Hannibal’s voice is steady as he poses the question. He cradles Abigail’s small body against his chest, in a way that looks like he’s trying to shield her from the situation at hand.</p><p> </p><p>“Not my decision to make. It’s up to you, Abigail.” Will keeps the gun trained on you, with unwavering accuracy. </p><p> </p><p>She nods, as if assuring them both that it’s a family matter.</p><p> </p><p>“Come along, Abigail. Will can handle this.” He turns his daughter towards the house and walks with her, arms tight around her shoulders. </p><p> </p><p>You’re left alone with Will. Though that’s certainly no comfort. Before this, you might have pegged him as the gentler of the pair. What with his affinity for animals and closeness with his daughter. But now you’re seeing things in a different light. There’s a raw ferocity in his eyes, the likes of which you could have never imagined. </p><p> </p><p>He walks towards you with the rifle, forcing you to back up until you hit the wall of the shed. Cornered.</p><p> </p><p>You glance at the woods. He catches the movement. </p><p> </p><p>“Oh? You want to run?” He smiles grimly. “Go ahead. Run. I know this forest like the back of my hand.” His voice is brimming with confidence.</p><p> </p><p>He could be bluffing. But you decide it’s not really a chance you’re willing to take.</p><p> </p><p>He lowers the rifle and slings it around his shoulder by the strap. “Wouldn’t want to wake up the neighbors.” </p><p> </p><p>He’s going to use his hands. </p><p> </p><p>And it dawns on you. He <em> likes </em> the fact that he’s having to use his hands.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>[Reader Death]</strong>
</p><p>
  <em> This is where the story ends for you, dear guest. Was it the ending you expected? Or perhaps the one you dreaded. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Was it a happy ending? That will be up to you. Happiness is relative after all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Was it deserved? Or did you draw the shortest straw this time around?</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Should time reverse, and the teacup pull itself together again, fate might possibly be kinder. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Want to try again?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0010">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0001">Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Accept your fate. [END]</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Garden - Tattletale</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>Shit. Well. She might have some secrets. Sneaking around like this.</p><p> </p><p>You back away into the darkness and begin making your way to the house. You keep checking behind you, but it certainly appears that she hasn’t heard you. She never even noticed you were there. </p><p> </p><p>You’ve got to tell her parents, right?</p><p> </p><p>You can’t be 100% sure she’s not too young to be smoking. </p><p> </p><p>But she does look closer to the age one might attend college. And the topic of high school didn’t come up, so it’s probably safe to assume she’s over 18. But still. There’s always that chance, right? </p><p> </p><p>You try to put yourself in her parents’ shoes. You think you’d want to know if your daughter was sneaking out to smoke in the middle of the night…. right? Who knows what else she might be up to. </p><p> </p><p>You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing. For the right reasons.</p><p> </p><p>Although, maybe it’s just because there’s a little thrill to snitching on someone. You don’t want to believe it initially, but it does excite you in a small way.</p><p> </p><p>And there’s the possibility that it would ingratiate you with your hosts, even. Or, might they take it as an offense…? </p><p> </p><p>You reach the threshold of the inn, and close the glass doors softly. </p><p> </p><p>You notice the door to the library has now been firmly pulled shut. Odd. You’re sure it wasn’t like that before. </p><p> </p><p>There’s still the glow of firelight creeping out from beneath the cracks. So you imagine someone’s still up. Likely one of the owners. Who else would have the audacity to close the door? </p><p> </p><p>You consider knocking, to let them know what you saw outside. </p><p> </p><p>But as you near the door, something makes you reconsider. </p><p> </p><p>Lewd noises escape from behind the ornately carved wood panels. </p><p> </p><p>You take a few steps back.</p><p> </p><p>Uhhh...Clearly they're... busy.</p><p> </p><p>Guess it can wait until morning?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Settle in for the night and get some rest. [DAY 2 - will be posted soon!]</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0009">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Night 1 - Sleepless - The Garden - Back to Bed</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>You decide she deserves her privacy. </p><p> </p><p>You certainly have had enough life experiences to tell you that just because things look happy on the surface doesn’t mean there isn't an array of demons lurking beneath. Maybe she needs her alone time, to chase away those demons.</p><p> </p><p>You back away into the darkness and begin making your way to the house. You keep checking behind you, but it certainly appears that she hasn’t heard you. She never even noticed you were there. </p><p> </p><p>You reach the threshold of the inn, and close the glass doors softly. </p><p> </p><p>You notice the door to the library has now been firmly pulled shut. Odd. You’re sure it wasn’t like that before. </p><p> </p><p>There’s still the glow of firelight creeping out from beneath the cracks. So you imagine someone’s still up. Likely one of the owners. Or perhaps both of them. Who else would have the audacity to close the door? </p><p> </p><p>As you descend the stairs, you hear a muffled crash coming from inside the library. Like something shattered. Fell off a table perhaps. There’s breathy laughter that comes afterwards. Sounds like both of them are in there.</p><p> </p><p>Then there’s a sound so unambiguously amorous that just hearing it from a distance is enough to make you blush. A muffled symphony of lewd noises escape from behind the ornately carved wood panels. </p><p> </p><p>You suppress an embarrassed smile and hurry up the stairs with a little more urgency.</p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p>. ⋄ . ◊ . ⋄ .</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>What will you do?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; Settle in for the night and get some rest. [DAY 2 - will be posted soon!]</p>
</blockquote><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Changed your mind about something?</strong>
</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt; <a href="#section0009">Go back to the last decision.</a></p>
  <p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<a href="#section0001"> Restart story from the beginning.</a></p>
</blockquote><p> </p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Day 2 will be posted soon! Stay tuned for updates. </p><p>Thanks so much for reading! </p><p>Let me know what you liked, what you didn't like, what works, what doesn't, etc. I'd love to get feedback so I can improve!</p><p>Any other choices / storylines you would like to see in future chapters?</p><p>Also, if you want any updates on this or my other works, feel free to follow me on any of the following:<br/><a href="https://twitter.com/ZoerylArt">Twitter: ZoerylArt</a><br/><a href="https://zoeryl.tumblr.com/">Personal / Fandom Tumblr: Zoeryl</a><br/><a href="https://zoerylart.tumblr.com/">Writing / Art Tumblr: Zoeryl's Creations</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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